They Both Die at the End: Parts Three and Four

He doesn’t gloat like Malcolm would or taunt me like Aimee did whenever she won at Battleship.

Lifting weights was a struggle with poor results; sets of twenty pull-ups became sets of four, on good days; and his coach pulled him out of the ring indefinitely because fighting would be impossible.

Illnesses have always run through his family—his father died years ago after being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, his aunt died from a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, and so on—but Vin believed he was better, stronger.

But chronic muscle disease pinned him down and he lost it all.

Our breaths are erratic, disturbed and frightened.

Death is prophesied in Deirdre’s name, that of a heroine in Irish mythology who took her own life.

I lift my legs higher, throwing my legs around his midriff.

He tries breaking out of my grapple as I rattle him, but no dice.

Damien has always been an adrenaline junkie.

“Scared of becoming a statistic who gets struck by lightning.”

“Our city is gigantic, too. Someone can live here their entire life and never walk every block in every borough. I once dreamt I was on some intense cycling trip where my tires had this glow-in-the-dark paint on them and I was aiming to make the city light up by midnight.”

He shifts, his body leaning against mine as he discreetly points at a woman in blue medical scrubs under her jacket, holding a shopping bag.

She’s drawing something colorful on her tablet with a blue stylus.

Another passenger, soaked, was having car trouble and had to ditch his van—no, wait, his Mercedes, Rufus corrects, because a train ride is a humbling experience for this rich guy.

Passengers look up from their newspapers and phone games and stare at Zoe. Indifference on one’s face, pity on another’s.

We’ll stretch this day out as long as possible, like we’re the summer solstice.

The sadness chokes me, not only for them, and not even for myself, but for the others ahead of us in our line who were woken up from their safe lives and will hurtle into danger in the next few hours, maybe even minutes.

And I would only go to sleep after I lived bravely, as the kind of person someone would want to wrap their arm around, who would maybe even nuzzle against my chin or shoulder, and go on and on about how happy we were to be alive with each other without question.

She’s frantically looking around for me, and even though today isn’t her End Day, I’m still nervous when a bike rider almost clips her, like he’ll knock her unconscious and she’ll find herself in the hospital with Dad.

What the arena provides for Deckers seems incomparable, way better than the Make-A-Moment station.

I’m no cartographer, but even I know the destination grid behind each seat—looking similar to the electronic maps on the subway—isn’t geographically correct.

In Africa, we see a giant fish tank with inhabitants from Lake Malawi, and I’m so enraptured by the blues and yellows swimming around that I almost miss the live feed on the wall of a lioness carrying her cub by the scruff of its neck.

In Australia, there are exotic flowers, kite races, and complimentary koala plush toys for any children.

In Colombia, Lidia tells us about the country’s perpetual summer, and we’re tempted to grab a drink from the juice vendors.

Rufus tugs at my arm and ushers me elsewhere, Lidia following.

The closest I’ve come to big bodies of water like this before today was when Aimee was fishing in the East River, and that led to a nightmare of me fishing for my family’s car in the Hudson River, reeling up their skeletons in the clothes they died in, reminding me how I abandoned them.

We’re next in the queue and we wait by the stage’s sticky steps.

Howie desperately wanted them to remain in Los Angeles, where he lives now, offering to take care of every last bill and splurge, but his parents’ love for San Juan, where they first met, was too great.

They’re ravenous for “content,” as his publicists and managers say.

But affection from millions and intimacy from that one special person are completely different beasts.

“I am where I am because my life moved as fast as it did. If I didn’t land that gig, maybe I would be in love with someone who loves me back. Maybe I would’ve been an actual son and not someone who thought being a bank account was enough. I could’ve taken time to learn Spanish so I could speak with my grandma without my mom translating.”

“You’re both honorary Plutos,” Tagoe says.

Yesterday Mateo would’ve found this claustrophobic, but now?

Everyone notices the gun and pandemonium rages in the club.

This morning, she pitched a new Last Message feature that will allow respective users to prepare their final tweets/statuses so their online legacy is more meaningful than, say, their thoughts on a popular movie or some viral video of someone else’s dog.

One with a buzz cut, brown complexion shades lighter than her own, and another with glasses, fuller brown hair, and light tan skin like Dahlia’s.

We put the books back on his shelves and pick up some little trinkets off the floor.

“Maybe we’ll smother each other to death,” I say.

“You’re positive about a movie theater in the afterlife but not if you’ll have your glasses? Seems like an oversight in your heavenly blueprint.”

It sears into my mind, but I shake it off as nothing but a nightmare because Mateo would never blame anyone for anything.

Delilah is writing the obituary based on the interview her boss didn’t fire her over.

Delilah spins the ring and the emerald points directly at her; not even the slightest bit favoring her shoulder or other patrons.

Ever since starting at D-C three months ago, he’s been in—for lack of a stronger word—a funk.

Death-Cast’s aesthetic is not what you’d imagine it to be.

I’m picturing Death stalking me, hiding behind cars and bushes, ready to swing his damn scythe.